Posts tagged ‘slice of life’

What is it about ruins that draws photographers in, and continues to fascinate them?

He attributed it to the role ruins play as his “brooding unconscious.” He believed ruins to embody a kind of guilt over civilization’s unchecked progress. He never believed these images to be sensationalistic and nothing more.

There doesn’t seem to be any lack of photographers today willing to tackle the subject, he knew that. His photos provided a valuable glimpse of the other world that exists on the flip side of mega malls and suburban sprawl. He lived by the old code – “take nothing but photographs, leave nothing but footprints” – and had a deep appreciation for the places he investigated.

For him, the best way of engaging with the past was by observing it through the prism of the present.

His present, he thought in hindsight, wouldn’t have ended as abruptly – if only he had knocked first.

It was an unexpected question. Her cheeks turned red. But not just from the cold as she tore open his letter standing next to her mailbox on the chilly December evening.

Once inside, she snuggled up with her self-assigned cup of cozy in hand – s’mores hot chocolate – and pulled a pillow onto her lap to steady the notebook on. Her gaze seemed absent as her handmade notebook cover adorned with hundreds of multicolored beads reflected the bright white twinkling lights of the Christmas tree next to the couch.

She stared into distant memories of a moment long lost ten years ago. Even when both hearts are ready, if one fails to recognize the magic of that moment, it will pass. She had learned that by now.

Squeezing her pen, she began to write the words in her best cursive. It wasn’t easy. She kept seeing his face. It showed up when she wrote the date in the left hand corner. It appeared when she wrote the title of her new flash fiction piece on the right side.

Everything would be alright soon, she told herself. Four more weeks until she would see him again – not an imagined face that time.

A couple crosses the street. Hand in hand, they ignore stop signs and slalom through cars, laughing. Reaching the bus stop where I am waiting, they kiss. Everyone in the station is watching them.

She, looks at her boyfriend with a kind of adoration one only sees in movies. She radiates happiness. He, reciprocates. They don’t stop smiling and talking.

As the bus rolls to a stop, they follow me behind my seat. I make myself comfortable for the long commute, and gaze out the window – listening.

It has been four years to the day since the accident, I overhear. Details aren’t shared; they seem unimportant to the conversation and the silence following his words makes it clear she knows them. I can almost hear them exchange a look, then talk about something else. Small things, of family and friends, places they like and wish to visit. They want to find out everything there is about one another. They are clearly at the beginning stage of their relationship. Infatuated with each other.

A few stops later, they walk to the door. As they get off the bus, people stare at him.

His sunglasses keep his eyes from showing, but I can imagine them. Despite all the wonderful moments I have overheard, they hide a sadness, a question. The long scars stretching all over his face, the ones that start at his nape and continue down his back, the ones that cover the length of his arms – they do the asking.

And I can’t help but wonder myself – how often does he start relationships, how often does he experience only the infatuation and understanding stage of them in this world where nothing is perfect and looks seem to account for everything?

*** With the above piece of flash fiction I’m participating in Friday Flash Dot Org’s Fourth Anniversary Blog Hop, running thru the end of the month. Go read the announcement post, and write a flash or comment on one of the entries for a chance to win a prize!

His breath pungent with alcohol, his face drained and resembling someone’s — that someone whom I see before my mind’s eye is long gone. This man’s face is abound with already dried up blood. Frightened, I can’t help but walk away as he mumbles out to me and I throw back a “The bus will come in a few minutes” to him. Leaving him behind, all I can think of and hope is that he has somewhere and someone to go home to. On Christmas Eve. The evening which should’ve, for both of us, been one of the most wonderful times of the year.

I saw how happy they were with each other, even though on paper it wouldn’t seem that way.

She was an artist with a true Pollyanesque heart, he was a realistic, straightforward guy. He liked classical music, it made her ears bleed. She was an introvert wishing nothing more than to stay at home with a good book, he was a complete extrovert always up for going out, partying with friends.

She was delighted with traveling to Paris. It was her favorite city in the world. The one she had been so happy in.

Now however, she was overwriting past memories while he charmed his new bride. Overwriting distant memories as the two of them strolled down cobblestone streets and dined in romantic restaurants. Overwriting cherished memories as they criss-crossed the Seine River and visited attractions, as they watched the city turn more magical with every second that passed. She loved her groom more than life itself.

Obliviously, he kissed her forehead and glanced over the city again, after she graciously eluded his kiss; embracing him so strongly as she never had before, kissing him on the cheek.

There was one memory she could not overwrite. There was only one kiss she desired to recall on top of the Eiffel Tower.